Bliss
by Destined for Johnlock
Summary: Sherlock and John are reunited at last, albeit prematurely. Sherlock's not quite done, though. There's still one person left to catch: Sebastian Moran. John accompanies him to Dubai, where they stay in a low-key motel to keep from attracting attention. M/M smut. One-shot, possible continued story. (Technically a first draft, but don't let that stop you from trying it out).


AN: So tumblr user whatswithmegan requested a fic with the following prompt: "one-shot: Sherlock and John go on a case somewhere else and have to spend the night in a hotel, smut please ;)" And I delivered.

Please don't hesitate to point out mistakes. This is a first draft, after all.

Disclaimers: I do not own anything related to Sherlock. BBC owns all rights to Sherlock, and of course Sir Author Conan Doyle owns all rights to his original characters.

* * *

It was shortly after Sherlock's return when he and John had worked up the courage to admit, openly, to one another how they felt during their time apart.

John's limp had returned for a short bit before he was able to convince himself that it was only a hindrance and Sherlock would surely have something very negative to say about it. So he more or less 'tricked' himself out of it much like Sherlock had. That meant, of course, putting himself in some sort of dangerous situation to do the trick, but John wouldn't ever explain that to him. He had also swallowed his grief and actually carried on with the ever-unwelcomed normality that had plagued his life prior to meeting the impossible genius. He dated, actually had a couple of serious girlfriends (what with Sherlock not being around to chase them away with rather obscene deductions). John was engaged to one in fact, though that ended shortly before Sherlock's return (when John's night terrors increased and his grief had hit an all-time high - or low, depending on one's perspective). He was still at the clinic, though oftentimes was called in at St. Bart's to assist with surgeries. He and Greg occasionally met up for drinks, but he stopped helping with cases. And Mrs. Hudson was basically John's anchor throughout the whole ordeal.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was quite busy tracking down Moriarty's web and eliminating it, destroying it from the inside out and watching it crumble much, _much_ too slowly in his opinion. It meant wasted time, time not spent back at home in his flat, _their_ flat, with John and Mrs. Hudson, with Molly doing him favors and Lestrade urgently requesting his assistance. But the last six months alone were spent tracking down who was the most skilled person in the web: ex-Colonel and sniper, Sebastian Moran. It actually led him back to London. Sherlock was terrified he would go after those he loved despite (or more likely because of) Moriarty's death, and it was because of the location that he had accidentally slipped his cover to John. Thankfully, it was near their flat when he discovered that Sherlock was, indeed, alive. Sherlock would never forget John's reaction: a gaping stare, stuttering, crinkling eyebrows and nose trying to make sense of the ghost before him, and then a swift punch to the face followed by, "You insensitive prat!" along with a string of obscenities that granted strange looks from passerby. He was prepared for the worst, but he most certainly wasn't prepared for _that_ sort of reunion. John quickly discovered that Mycroft was in touch with him the entire time, which resulted in a stern talking-to of his own, to which he reluctantly accepted that he was actually in the wrong for having not told John. Or at least that's what he told John.

Regardless of how or why they were fated to reunite, Sherlock was still considered dead. Mrs. Hudson, John, Mycroft, and Molly knew. John couldn't be angry with Molly, though. It just didn't seem right. So he dismissed that 'betrayal,' the endearing term he chose for Mycroft's active participation in Sherlock's stunt. The public couldn't know that he was alive, even if Moran was aware that he was being chased down by the genius himself. After the return, though, and much heated debate, Sherlock gave in and allowed John to accompany him on the rest of his hunt. As soon as the decision was made, Moran relocated to Dubai, a place Sherlock was all too familiar with. It was one of the more popular places he had frequented on his search, successfully tearing apart the system piece by ragged piece from within the heart of the city-state. They quickly found a cheap motel to stay at, (to John's surprise, Sherlock had actually suggested the location to lay low), and had their stuff dropped off in no time. They were out the door at dusk, a plan fully formulated in Sherlock's mind, and he gave John a quick rundown on the way to their location.

The stakeout was long and, to say the least, tedious. It couldn't have been boring; they were chasing down a criminal mastermind's right hand man after all. But John was just grateful to be by Sherlock's side once more, the thrill of the chase coursing through his veins. John had asked all of the questions he wanted, everything he could have possibly been curious about with Sherlock's time away. But there was something irritatingly awful about not hearing Sherlock's voice. During the separation, John had actually begun to forget how he sounded, as painful as that was to admit. It was a God sent voice when it graced his ears, though, and he relished in it.

"So what makes you so sure he'll be here, Sherlock?"

"He's likely to scout out the city for any new places to hide out in case he managed to salvage members or recruit new ones. This hasn't been mapped out yet, at least it wasn't last time I had a little chat with one of his henchmen."

"But this city is huge."

"And they've been here on and off for the better part of three years."

"So?"

"So they've had enough time to cover most of it."

"But why he-"

"John, shut up, we've got to listen."

John should have been offended, but hearing his own name in Sherlock's voice was enough to send the blood rushing to his face, clipped though the sound may have been. And they waited. And waited. And waited some more. Six hours into the night and with no activity even remotely near them, Sherlock decided to turn in. The flight had left him exhausted. John wouldn't complain, of course. He was just as tired.

The cab ride back wasn't terrible. Traffic was awful as usual, but the cabby took the back roads and went out of his way to ensure they got there at a decent hour, whatever decent was after a stakeout. Sherlock paid the man a generous sum, no doubt with funds from Mycroft, and they toppled out of the cab, the whir of the night air mixed with drowsiness making it a bit difficult to walk after having sat still for so long. Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the motel room key, fumbling with the lock when they arrived at their room and finally shoving the stubborn door open. John flicked on the light, Sherlock locked the door behind him, and they each took a quick turn going through their evening ritual. Sherlock showered first, then John, each brushed their teeth and they dressed for bed. The room had two full size beds with ugly floral print on the blankets and thin, stiff pillows at the headboard of each. A large chest occupied the space at the foot of each bed, on top of which they had thrown some of their things. John had thankfully packed extra blankets to sleep on top of. Their beds were made in no time and Sherlock plopped down on his, limbs stretched out, one leg dangling over the edge and the other threatening to hang off the end, and his arms were above his head, curled around it. John watched as he settled down into a comfortable position, listened to his breaths slow and lengthen. Sherlock wouldn't sleep for a bit, of course. He'd lay there and think about their next move, the possibilities of Moran's plans. John would be left to lay in the dark, staring at the silhouette of his best friend expand and retract minutely with every breath and wondering what exactly was going on in that maze of a 'mind palace' he had.

He and Sherlock had dodged any real discussion about their feelings toward one another. It was blindingly obvious, and according to everyone else it had been since before the fall, and both he and Sherlock _knew_. They just wouldn't talk about it. Nor would they talk about Sherlock falling asleep on John's shoulder after a particularly long evening watching crap telly. Nor would they mention the quick, chaste kissed they shared when Sherlock had a revelation on a case, nor the slower, gentler one John had woken up to one morning when Sherlock simply smiled afterwards and sauntered off into the kitchen to conduct an experiment. They never brought up the longing stares they would catch each other in the middle of, either. But something was there, John knew. What it was, he wouldn't admit to Sherlock, Mr. 'Sentiment is a Weakness.' Or at least he hadn't dared to before.

This evening would be different, though. Sherlock had, after all, come back into his life, intentionally or not. And John had suggested to him — no, urged him — to allow him join on the hunt, to become an active participant. They both knew it was probably the safest option now that Sherlock was back. Otherwise, John would have gone running after him anyway. So before he settled onto his own bed, he folded his arms over his chest and pursed his lips, staring at the ground for a moment as if it would help him gather his thoughts. It didn't. He had no idea where he would go with the conversation. So he just went with the first thing to pop into his head. He looked back up at Sherlock as he spoke. "When were you planning on coming back, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's body remained as still and relaxed as it had been when he replied, "After I caught Sebastian Moran, of course."

"And that—" John paused for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing together to think up an appropriate response, something that didn't sound too accusatory or offensive. "That could have taken you months. Years, even!"

"If that was required, yes." His calm voice irritated John for some reason.

"So you would have let me go on to believe that you were de—" John still had trouble saying it, but he kept on anyway, "dead and gone and let my hope wither and rot under some false illusion? Is that it?"

Sherlock's voice had an edge to it now. "You know well enough that was not my intention."

"Well, that's what it bloody well did! You can't just leave people, Sherlock! You can't just leave me alone to… to…" John took a moment to calm himself. No doubt the walls were thin enough anything above a normal volume of conversation would have penetrated them. He continued when he felt he could control his voice. "People don't do that, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his eyes, the piercing light blue contrasting with the dark look they held, and his voice was nothing more than a low, forced mumbling. "I did it to save you."

"Yeah, well, it just about killed me." The words were out before he could stop them, and he covered his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes as if to wake himself from a bad dream. Unfortunately for him, it was reality, and his gaze met a quizzical one. Not only quizzical, but, well, dare John say it, _concerned_. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but to realize that Sherlock was capable of feeling sentiment, even in some of its lower forms toward John was still a bit foreign. He shook his head and sat down on the edge of his bed, his hands falling loosely in his lap and his shoulders a bit hunched over. He was definitely too tired for this.

"John, I had no idea."

"I didn't exactly tell you. I managed, as you know. But those first few months… they were hell. I'd visit your grave every chance I got, talk to you about my life and such. Hell, for all I know Mycroft had it rigged up with a microphone so you could hear it all." He tried to chuckle, but the sound was hollow. He cleared his throat instead. "I actually caught Anderson there. He was a bit torn up. Still don't think he knows I saw him, and he'll deny it if I say something. But that's… It was hard, Sherlock."

Sherlock had sat up at some point, John wasn't aware when, and was sitting directly opposite him, his fingers intertwined with one another and his chin resting on those, elbows on knees. His stare was hard and holding, something John was either very uncomfortable with or very grateful for. This time he was grateful. It meant Sherlock wasn't only listening, but he was processing the information, and that alone would mean so much more to John than Sherlock would ever understand. "It was hard for me, too, you know. Being away from home, from you. And your tea and cooking." That managed a small smile from John, broken as it seemed.

They sat in a comfortable and shared silence, each assessing their time apart for the billionth time, what it meant to themselves, and, since they had spoken about it, to each other. There was a new, blossoming fondness that Sherlock noted, and a continued flame flickering as bright as ever that John felt. They both knew, but they never said.

So the next thing out of Sherlock's mouth pleasantly surprised John: "I love you."

John blinked a couple of times, his eyes wide and his heart fluttering. He felt the rise of heat in his chest. Before he got too excited, though, he reminded himself that while the admission was very much what he hoped for, it was probably exaggerated. He wasn't sure Sherlock was capable of such a strong emotion what with him being attached to his own life and work and such. "Sherlock, I—… Are you sure?"

"Yes."

John still wasn't too convinced it was real. "How do you—"

"I get a strange feeling in my stomach like there's something trying to make it flip and my head gets light, my vision blurs a bit, and I feel a bit dizzy in your presence. I find myself longing to reach out and touch tendrils of your hair when you wake and smooth them back down. I actually have the urge to make your tea for you, answer to most of your requests, even the silly ones, and research the dull and predictable plots to those terrible television shows you watch just to have something else to talk about other than cases and what we're having for dinner. I have a nervous habit when you're not around, because I constantly worry if you're ok, or if you're upset. I've kissed you, I'll acknowledge that now, and I thought those alone made it clear how I felt about you. However, it seems you're left questioning what exactly we are, am I correct?"

John slowly nodded as everything caught up in his head and Sherlock continued before he had a chance to reply. "So a confession seems to be the only way to go about it. I figured after living with me for a few years, you'd have the ability to deduce even that much from me, but I suppose that was a bit far-fetched." John seemed unfazed with the insult, though it was meant to be playful anyway, and Sherlock shifted a bit, his body tense and readying itself for the worst case scenario: rejection. John Watson, after all, was 'not his date' and was 'not gay.' But given their history, Sherlock had to be the exception to that. "So, John. You tell me. Where _are_ we?"

John just stared at him, his body taut and his eyes wider than before. He had forgotten how to breathe for a moment and forced a deep inhale. Without another word, John stood and took the two steps between the beds before he was standing over Sherlock, his hands forcing his shoulders back and legs straddling his waist. He wasted no time in claiming Sherlock's mouth with his, an embarrassing desperation in his lips prying the other's apart. A low groan escaped him and was quickly replaced with his tongue trailing along Sherlock's upper lip. Sherlock gladly welcomed the intrusion and wrapped his arms around John's waist, pulling at the material of his shirt against his back to draw him in even closer.

Sherlock's lips were everything John had imagined them to be. Not that he had too much need to. The previous couple of kisses gave him a general idea. But no, Sherlock was much more talented than he gave him credit for. John figured he'd just awkwardly go about it to please him and just as awkwardly proceed with sex. That was not to be the case, however. Sherlock Holmes, the man of a thousand skills, most useful and some not (at least not in practical life), knew exactly what he was doing. He had to, having watched John long enough to know what he liked and what he didn't in the way of physical pleasure. He was spot on for the most part, successfully controlling the kiss and raking his teeth along John's bottom lip, moving his hands down to John's waist to press his thumbs into the dip of the other man's hip bone, which elicited a strong reaction from him in the way of a rather loud moan. So yes, Sherlock was well aware of just what to do with John to satisfy him.

John, on the other hand, was a bit lost. He wasn't sure what Sherlock liked exactly. Well, except control, and to be honest, John wasn't sure if he wanted to surrender that to him or not. To fuck or be fucked. That was the question. John's clouded judgment was further hindered when Sherlock moved to his neck and found the spot where it met his (good) shoulder, biting down on it before sucking the skin there. It was sure to leave a bruise, but if Sherlock wanted to mark him in any way, John would have no quarrels with that. He quickly asserted his own dominance when he reached up to grab some of those soft, dark locks between his fingers and pull the genius's head back far enough to look into his eyes. They were glazed over. Yes, Sherlock most definitely got off on being in control.

"John," he muttered, his breath coming in short pants. "John, John, oh _John_." They were little praises and he tried leaning forward to claim his mouth again. But John held him still. Sherlock's eyes slowly opened again as he blinked up at his blogger, his flatmate, his friend, _his soon-to-be-lover,_ and his lips pulled down in to a bit of a pout. It was cute, but John wasn't going to be swayed so easily.

"We're doing this my way." John's voice was a low growl, and it sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. But he nodded, desperate to please him, and yielded some control over to John. Neither of them were particularly experienced with their situation, what with them both being men. John never got to experiment in college nor the military, and Sherlock had found the whole idea tedious. There never was someone else worth his time the way John was. He'd do anything for him, absolutely anything. He would, of course, being as clever as he was, find a way to work that to his advantage.

Satisfied, John spread his legs a bit further until he could feel Sherlock's erection against his own, the thin, straining cloth between the two of them the only thing separating them from one another. John groaned loudly as he rolled his hips against Sherlock's, and Sherlock tried his best to subtly move along with him, gripping onto his hips once more. John briefly considered taking his time to explore Sherlock's body, map out every inch of it and store that information away for many, many future uses. But the primal need to be as close to Sherlock as possible as soon as he could be suggested he could wait another day for that. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere. Oh no, he would be stuck with John whether he liked it not from that point on. Sherlock, of course, wouldn't argue with that.

He was rather fond with the idea of giving rather than receiving. Perhaps because it was his first time with another male, he thought that the best way to go about it. But when Sherlock used John's loosened grip on his hair to his advantage, he leaned forward and flicked his tongue against the lobe of John's ear, tracing along the shell of it and back down to suck on the hollow beneath it. Not only that, but he had found the spot on John's lower back that would crumble his reservations, scratching his nails roughly against the spot over and over again. Sherlock's voice would be the unraveling of his willpower, though, and he practically melted into him when that rich, velvet voice murmured in his ear, "Let me take you, John."

What followed was a series of groans and frustrated grunts as they fumbled with each other's shirts. John stood, his balance off a bit before Sherlock steadied him with his free hand, and they both had their pajama bottoms off. Neither of them wore pants beneath them, (John had forgotten to pack those), and once fully exposed, Sherlock pulled John back down on top of him, their cocks standing erect. Some precum had provided a light coat on the head of each and John rutted against him, unable to really keep himself from doing so. The harsh lighting provided in the room didn't do wonders to either of them, but John figured if Sherlock looked this amazing now, he had to look even better back at the flat. That thought in itself, both of them in either John's bed or Sherlock's bed, was enough to drag a moan from deep in his throat. Sherlock would later confirm that that thought and the feelings associated with it were mutual.

John marveled at the pale, toned body before him, a striking contrast against the dark, damp hair that hung around Sherlock's face. He watched as the two of them rubbed against each other, Sherlock's long, slimmer cock covering John's slightly shorter, wider one with precum, and vice versa. The thought flashed across his mind for a moment and before he could forget it, he leaned over and shoved his hand in the bag sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed. He quickly located the lube he carried around for his own personal use and readjusted against Sherlock, who had been lost in concentration at John's features as well. A smirk played at the corners of his lips and he watched John as he applied a small amount of the lube on one of his hands, flipped the top closed, and quickly spread it over his palm and fingers before gripping both of their cocks in one hand.

The sensation was overwhelming for both men. Sherlock pulled his head back and John sort of leaned into him, his forehead resting against the other's jaw. John's hands could reach enough to keep a steady pace going. They both rocked into the motion easily and soon found themselves lost in each other's eyes, their body heat, and their tight grips, Sherlock's on John's hip and arm and John's free hand on the sheet beneath him. Sherlock had lain back at some point and John hovered over him, his free arm quickly threatening to give out from the weight and exertion. A couple of strokes later, Sherlock stopped John, which was met with a confused look. He chuckled and explained, "I'm too close. I don't want to come this way." He propped himself up on one elbow and pulled John in by the back of his neck, his lips ghosting over the other's when he spoke, "I'd much rather come inside you."

And for some reason, for whatever divine intervention that was working on Sherlock's part, John agreed. He agreed to let Sherlock in, quite literally this time, and nodded his consent. The amused smirk faded from Sherlock's lips and his expression was one that conveyed a serious intent. He'd take this seriously, give John everything he felt he deserved and so much more, try his best to make up for the years he was gone, and in that moment, John knew Sherlock was actually quite serious when he confessed to him that he loved him.

Before there was any more time for thought, Sherlock reached over for the lube and applied a generous amount to his fingers. With a quick look at John that asked, 'how?' John lifted his hips enough to allow Sherlock room to do whatever necessary. Back up on one elbow, Sherlock reached between John's legs and felt around with his ring finger, his middle and index covered in lubricant, and gauged John's reactions to the new sensation. As far as he was aware, John had never had someone do this to him, but the response was positive. With a smooth motion, Sherlock positioned his middle finger at John's entrance and gently pushed in, the resisting muscles trying desperately to dispel the intrusion. John tensed and Sherlock stopped immediately, afraid he'd hurt him if he continued. After a moment, John nodded and he continued. He worked up to a steady rhythm, added the second finger when instructed to do so, and watched as John pushed back against his hand, trying to get him deeper, anything that meant more of Sherlock.

It wasn't too much longer after that when John finally demanded that Sherlock just take him as requested earlier. Sherlock was more than happy to oblige and went to grab the lube again. He paused for a moment and looked at John, biting his lip before saying, "I didn't exactly bring a condom."

That hadn't occurred to John, either. He wasn't exactly planning on doing anything, so he hadn't come very well prepared. "Oh! Um… are you, uh, clean? You must have been tested at some point."

"Yeah, of course. I haven't been with anyone else in so long and I haven't used in years. Last time I was tested, I left with a clean bill of health."

"Then I trust you." The thought brought a blush to Sherlock's neck and face, but he shook his head and grinned, a bit nervously. None the less, he applied the lube and tossed the bottle to the side, applying the generous amount to the head of his cock first and working it down the shaft, biting back low groans as he did so. "Ah, can we, uh, scoot up a bit? My legs are still hanging off the side."

"Yeah, yeah of course," John replied, remembering to wipe his hand clean from earlier on the sheet. He didn't care. They'd just clean it later anyway.

Once situated again, Sherlock's legs more or less comfortably on the bed, he held the base of his cock as John adjusted himself over it, one hand on Sherlock's chest and the other reaching behind to help guide him inside. He stayed relaxed even when they worked the head in. It was an incredible and liberating feeling, he decided, being on top and calling the shots. It was Sherlock's way of handing trust over to John while demanding it in return. John gladly gave it to him. He was, after all, his best friend, the one person who would mean more to him than anyone else. Even after the fall, even after the hardships that came along with it, he still trusted him. He never stopped believing in him, and he wouldn't ever have to now.

With one smooth motion, John lowered himself on Sherlock, his muscles initially protesting at the stretch before finally giving way to it. John saw stars. The feeling of being full, being completely and utterly filled with the man he loved more than anything in the world, and watching that man's hips twitch up beneath him, eyes roll to the back of his head, and to feel his hands grips John's legs was almost enough to send him over the edge. He felt a connection he never thought possible with another person, a bond that wouldn't break. None of his girlfriends, nor his ex-fiancé, had made him feel this way. Not this whole and complete. He hadn't quite found his place in the world before Sherlock, but this, the return and the fights, crime scenes investigated and the runaways, tea and bad television shows, experiments and thumbs in the fridge were all so ingrained in his heart that anything else would just feel _lacking_.

They soon lost themselves in each other again. John rocked his hips a couple of times before he found the angle most comfortable for him and Sherlock just watched, waiting for any sign that he was free to move as well. The heat that enveloped him was urging him to thrust deeper, go further, take as much of John as he could. When he was finally granted permission with a rather impatient, "fucking move, Sherlock," he was more than happy to oblige, rolling his hips up and into John. A few more times and John threw his head back, letting out a short, loud burst of a moan. His face reddened more so and Sherlock realized he had hit his prostate. So he did it again, snapping his hips up this time, and received the same reaction. They kept that up, each panting more and more the longer they went, hands and mouths exploring skin, scratching and grabbing and biting and marking. A few times, Sherlock slipped out, but they quickly resumed their pace and found where they were perfectly meeting one another. Sherlock's mind was clouded, blissfully so for once, and he started muttering compliments. Unfortunately for John, they were in French. Fortunately for Sherlock, John wasn't paying much attention to what was being said but rather the sound of his voice. And John, in return, was using a few choice words himself, although they weren't near as elegant as whatever it was Sherlock was saying.

It was hot and loud, and _fuck_ did it make for a wonderful evening. Sebastian Moran was forgotten, Moriarty was just another name, the fall never happened, and they were in their own world with one another. Everything was John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John, they were one, and nothing hurt. John controlled the pace, felt this own climax approaching, and looked at Sherlock with wide, pleading eyes, which were rewarded with a large, warm hand around his cock stroking in time with their thrusts. In moments, they were tossed over the edge of their climaxes, John's come covering both his stomach and Sherlock's, (and they would later find some had reached just beneath Sherlock chin, which he would be picked on for relentlessly in the months following). Sherlock cried out John's name and his body was racked with searing pleasure, spilling into John for what seemed like a while.

It was perfect.

After they both rode through their orgasms, John's arms gave out and he collapsed onto Sherlock. They were both breathing hard, bodies limp, and each had their own completely satisfied grin spread across their faces. When they looked at one another, they laughed, Sherlock's arms wrapping around John's back and hugging him tightly against his chest. They lay like that for a long while. John listened to the sound of Sherlock's heart eventually slow to a normal beat when they regained their breath.

If John Watson had to define bliss, it would be the way Sherlock held him close, protective and passionate. The looks he gave him and the need in his kisses. It would be the feelings he got when Sherlock outwardly expressed affection.

If Sherlock Holmes had to define it, it would simply be John.

"Hey Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I love you, too."


End file.
